


so, i heard you like bad boys

by orphan_account



Series: why i'm going to hell (short works) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Blow Jobs, Creampie, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Porn with Feelings, Smut, Switch John Watson, Switch Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:13:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27679906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You know that Tumblr post. I know that Tumblr post. That (imagine your OTP) that starts with "So, I heard you like bad boys...", well, I saw it on Instagram and someone commented, "No, this is what would really happen..." and I made it into a oneshot. If anyone can find that post, tell me please so I can credit that person for supplying this prompt?Either way, just read this shameless smut.(Gifted to wendymarlowe because I love wendymarlowe.)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: why i'm going to hell (short works) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029117
Comments: 8
Kudos: 81





	so, i heard you like bad boys

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendymarlowe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymarlowe/gifts).



“So, I heard you’re into bad boys,” John barely registers the sentence, eyes still glued on the line in the newspaper about political warfare. It came from Sherlock, almost dismissively.

Then the full complexity of the line hits him hard. It’s a direct flirtation. A _flirtation._ From Sherlock Holmes. Not that he hasn’t imagined the million ways he’ll allow his act-first-think-later survival tactic to take over and make a bold move on Sherlock, but the roles are reversed, and _Sherlock, Sherlock is flirting badly._ Sherlock’s flirting with him. A million fantasies have the opportunity to happen, now, here, right now, right here, and John’s mind is rushing to process that. 

He looks up from the paper.

Sherlock’s across the living room, deliberately slouching in his armchair, a leg pulled underneath his jaw, another resting lazily on the armrest, purposely the worst possible way someone could sit, his posture fluid, his intense eyes and determined set of jaw saying otherwise, turned towards John, as if trying to penetrate him with his intelligence. He’s a work of abstract art, angles and edges and curves and curls, he’s a literal paradox that’s currently eagerly waiting for a response. 

Clumsy words tumble out of his mouth. “What? No.”

John had given absolutely no thought into saying that, at all. He cringed and died internally. There it goes, the big relationship-changing moment that will impact the next ten years, at least: ‘what, no.’. Good fucking job. 

Then it comes to John immediately. Oh, yeah. He’d seen the way this plays out on Tumblr before. Sherlock would answer, ‘oh, thank God, that felt so uncomfortable’ as he stops slouching. Then John will chuckle, Sherlock would blush, and there it is, a direct invitation that John could take on from there. Images of Sherlock’s dark curls pressed to his face with sweat, his eyes closed, his mouth open and making slutty, wanting noises fill his head. John played it right, after all. 

John doesn’t take stock of the second the edge of Sherlock’s lip slightly goes upwards. 

Sherlock hops off the armchair and begins advancing towards him. 

Shit, where’s the line? What’s happening? What’s Sherlock doing? What?

It’s like watching a 3D jumpscare in slow motion. Maybe you know what’s coming, maybe you don’t, but all you can do is sit there and absorb the full extent of horror bloom in front of you, daring you to touch it, come on, do something. In a graceful move, Sherlock’s right leg moves up first, touches the coffee table, he slides his knee all the way to the edge, so close to John, so close, his other leg follows, and there Sherlock is, kneeling on the coffee table, towering over John, his expression so properly amused and lustful and sadistic as he grabs John’s jaw and yanks it upwards to meet his eyes and drawls out, “Think again.”

Oh my God. 

John’s so dumbfounded, he could get slapped thrice and he wouldn’t notice. His brain is moving like a boulder getting pushed by a kid. There’s an echo where his heart should be, and panic instead of adrenaline in his veins. 

“John. Please tell me you’re processing this.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking the very definition of dominance. John feels some of that warmth in his stomach travel down to his groin, at least six inches of blood or whatever that is in an erection filling him out.

“I am. Perfectly.” John lied.

Sherlock just looked at him with that usual look of arrogant skepticism. This time, John’s body managed to conjure irritation. How _dare_ Sherlock try to turn the tables? How _dare_ Sherlock not follow the script? How _dare_ he catch John off-kilter like this and proceed to obnoxiously kneel on the fucking coffee table?

“You’re not a bad boy, Sherlock, you’re a horrible arsehole.” John’s erection strained against his trousers. “And get off the table, please.”

“I would rather you get me off,” Sherlock shot back, fast even for him. John’s turn to raise an eyebrow. Sherlock dared to manipulate the variables of the current situation and think he’s so clever? Well, he’ll show Sherlock it required quite a bit of science to get a PhD too. He’s not the only scientist in this flat.

“No, bad boys don’t get to pick what happens to them.” John’s thumb lingered over the zipper of his jeans. Sherlock’s eyes widened a little. “I’m assuming you’re fully aware of the consequences of flirting and teasing with me.”

“I am, of course.” Sherlock’s turn to sound unsure and hyperfocused on John, who was currently supremely satisfied. Deciding to keep Sherlock at an emotional disadvantage, which was rare in itself, John listened to the tantalizing sound his zipper made as he drew it out completely, and casually shrugged off his jeans.

John should’ve felt somewhat embarrassed sitting on the couch with trousers off and a raging erection, but he wasn’t the one on his knees on the coffee table with his mouth hanging open. Sherlock appeared to regroup, reassess, rethink, but John was having none of that. In a swift grip, he got hold of Sherlock’s arm and yanked, so that Sherlock had no choice but to keep up with the sudden movement, stumbling off the coffee table and onto the floor, ending up kneeling again, but between John’s knees. 

God, being in control was almost better than sex in a way. Those two were interrelated in John’s opinion, like salt with pepper. There’s no sex without some degree of surrender of control, and John was never going to be in the submissive position, mostly because he _needs_ control, needs to know that he could pull a trigger anytime, both metaphorically and literally. Seeing Sherlock like this, awestruck and staring straight into his crotch, it felt like having all the pride and intellect in the world on its knees, willingly admitting John, plain old John, is superior.

“My knees are starting to bruise,” Sherlock remarked offhandedly, still not moving his eyes from John’s groin.

“Deal with it. You chose to kneel after all, I’m just giving you what you want.”

Sherlock bit his lip, and looked up slowly, blinking green eyes with flecks of blue like some exotic crystal, the position and expression doing nothing to soften John’s now throbbing cock. “What… do I want?”

“What did you want when you flirted with me like that? What did you want when you got on your knees in front of me? What did you want when you saw me undo my fly?” Sherlock may or may not have heard any of that, but he could surely see John place his thumbs in his pants. “You can tell me after I tell you what I want. I want to shut you up by stuffing my cock down your mouth, all you can do is just kneel and take me, and you’re going to hate yourself for liking it because it’s so _humiliating,_ the great Sherlock Holmes sucking cock and liking it. You’re going to swallow my come and beg for more, because you’re really just a masochistic cockslut and I’m the only one that gets to put you in place. That’s what I want. What do you?”

By the time John was finished, his erect penis was exposed to air, an inch away from Sherlock’s lips. 

There was a brief second when John felt the regret hit hard, the hangover after a night of drinking. How could he have let his impulses get out of hand? How could he have done this? How could he have ever thought that Sherlock wanted to be degraded like this, and how could he think that he would be the one to do it, when he was surely the most ordinary person in Sherlock’s entire life?

John opened his mouth to apologize and then it dropped open completely.

Sherlock wrapped his lips around John’s tip.

John was a simmering pot of nerves, afraid of making any other moves, but now it felt like fire all over and he was boiling, threatening to overflow, noises spilling out of him as he kept his eyes wide open on Sherlock. Sherlock, the genius, the brat, the aristocrat, the detective, the celebrity, the addict, the consultant, the flatmate, the self-proclaimed ‘sociopath’ (horseshit), all the complex identities condensed into one person, and that person was currently sucking him off.

The inside of Sherlock’s mouth was wet and soft, his tongue trapped underneath John’s cock, Sherlock making as many noises as he could with a huge erection stuck in his mouth. John felt like the king of the damn world. Sherlock was so tight and and wet and so good at applying friction by moving his head and tongue, gyrating against John so effortlessly. Without thinking, John had placed his hands in Sherlock’s curls and squeezed, guiding him deeper, deeper, deeper, Sherlock not holding back, enveloping as much of John as he could in one big deep gulp, the sensation so thrilling and fascinating John decided the phrase ‘better than sex’ should officially go out of use.

John’s vocabulary was limited to grunts and groans and moans as he felt his orgasm stir in his stomach, ready for that one last thrust, so he pushed Sherlock further and Sherlock complied, his throat stretching around John’s cock as if it were the only edible thing on earth.

John’s vision whitened and he cried out Sherlock’s name as he ejaculated in two long spurts, one into Sherlock’s mouth, the other a moment of pure luck that he managed to drag himself out of the delicious warmth and coat Sherlock’s face with semen.

Sherlock looked _beautiful_ with John’s come over his face, his mouth red, panting hard from exertion, and just like John imagined: mouth open, curls stuck to forehead from sweat. Shit. John wished he had a Mind Palace too so he could take a picture of this in the clearest definition there is and hang it up on the front door. 

“That was… that was…” Of course, John’s self-control was slowly coming back to him, so he didn’t say that out loud.

Sherlock didn’t reply, just closed his eyes.

“Sorry. Did you like that?”

“Of course, stop being daft on purpose.”

And there was Sherlock’s arrogance coming back to him as well. 

“If you did like it, well…” John shrugged, still feeling boneless, the weariness catching up. It’s been so long since an orgasm like that. He’ll wank to this for years, but for now, he just wanted to go to sleep.  
“Since we both liked it,” Sherlock started conversationally, as if all that didn’t affect him in the least. “I suppose that we can do more of that in the future. You know, as a healthy outlet for our emotions.”

“Great, I agree. But for now, I want to go to sleep.”

John’s eyes were half shut when Sherlock, without warning, pounced onto the couch like a cat and hissed, “Now I’ll show you how bad I can be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave kudos and criticism! Thank you for reading!


End file.
